You

You laugh at our built -
the soi-disant claims, 
the shining cheapness
in railways, on streets,
the big bold bald bling.

Yours is nor a throne,
the golden glass either.
The rain you look at,
does not fall for you.
You are an ordinary man.

Your gypsy hair grab my sight.
I do not hunt you down.
I play with thousand cranes.
Just folded the last
and there you are.